


Faithful in the Performance

by lorata



Series: Faithful in the Performance [1]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Gen, M/M, Swords & Fencing, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On board the Allegiance, Laurence has a lot of time to think. Granby and Tharkay try to talk him out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithful in the Performance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linguafranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguafranka/gifts).



> This is basically an excuse to cram as much fanservice into a fic as I can while still remaining in-character and in-universe. Birthday present for a friend, who requested Temeraire, Tharkay/Laurence, and UST. Granby just kept worming his way in there. Set between Victory of Eagles and Tongues of Serpents.

The sea stretched out around the _Allegiance_ farther than the eye could follow. Landsmen often referred to it with such inaccurate phrasings as “unchanging” or “empty”, but even after trading the daily roll of the deck beneath his feet for windburn on his cheeks, Laurence had not forgotten how to read the waves. Unending she might seem, but excepting the cases of becalming, the sea was not a mistress any sailor could claim uninteresting.

He had read, once, the accounts of a man gone mad charting the far reaches of Siberia, whose final journal entries claimed he could no longer move forward, only sit still while the earth rolled away beneath him like a man atop a barrel. Laurence, despite the change in his vocation, could not make himself see the same illusion, but he found himself beginning to comprehend the sentiment at its core.

The sea, once a promise – if not of adventure, freedom and unknown riches as when he was a boy, then at least of never-ending novelty – now became an instrument of inevitability, the wind and currents dragging Laurence away from everything that used to matter, without a clear understanding of what it planned to offer in return.

Certainly Temeraire felt it keenly, better disposed though he was to the sea than other dragons. He was not permitted to go aloft as much as he would like, owing to his constant inquiries concerning whether it wouldn’t be faster to find an overland route, at least until China.

Unfortunately, the stack of books Laurence had managed to procure for Temeraire made provisions for only a month, and without such diversions as a new language to learn or diplomatic entanglements to unravel – and with only Iskierka, who showed a categorical distaste for all matters intellectual that did not end in combustion – Temeraire had begun to find himself idle.

One afternoon, taking advantage of Iskierka’s absence from the dragondeck to stretch out, full length and blissfully dry, until she returned from a patrol of which he pretended not to be envious, Temeraire nudged Laurence in the shoulder. “Laurence, would you explain marriage to me?”

Laurence coughed, glad for the excuse to stop butchering the Analects, which Temeraire had insisted that he learn now that time no longer presented itself as a problem, but unsure how to proceed. “It’s an agreement,” he began, “in both the laws of man and in the eyes of God –“ Here he fumbled.

“Yes, yes, I know that part. I gathered that much from your Testaments,” Temeraire said with a blasphemous little snort that showed just how much he’d managed to gather from the sacred texts. “Only, there’s a great deal of fuss about becoming the same person, one flesh and all that, and it sounds dreadfully unpleasant. Not to mention a bother about the capital – does this new person manage both shares, or is it still divided somehow?”

Laurence, thinking Temeraire and his given sensibilities would disapprove of the wife’s capital bestowed on the husband by the father, neatly sidestepped the question. “It is not a literal joining, of course,” he said. “It refers more to a – a union of loyalties, as it were. The two agree to put the other before all else.”

“Oh, that makes more sense,” Temeraire agreed, relief evident in his tone. Laurence hoped that would put pain to the discussion, but Temeraire did not settle. “But when you say ‘before all else’, does that refer to all duties as well? To God and country, I mean.”

“Ah, well.” Laurence cleared his throat. “Loyalty to God and King do come first, certainly.”

Temeraire huffed out a breath. “Then what good is it, if at any time the church or the government could order you to kill the other person, and you’d have to do it?”

Previously, Laurence would have felt the scandal of the question and looked about to see if anyone had overheard. Now, however, with the brand of traitor across his forehead every bit as clear as the mark of Cain, but at least without the weight of the deaths of thousands of dragons on his shoulders, Laurence found the answer – and his feelings – much murkier. “It is not as simple as that,” he said. “Anyone may be ordered to do something he does not care for, in any circumstance. In the end, when duties conflict, it is up to him to choose to which set of loyalties have the greatest claim on him. Sadly, however, marriage often takes the lower place.”

Temeraire, who must feel the point of this remark, fell silent, nosing his breastplate as he tended to do when unhappy. “I still don’t see the point of it. Captain Riley made such a fuss over marrying Catherine after he’d given her the egg, and I know she agreed, but I’d hardly say her loyalty is to him in any sense. And anyway,” he added, ducking his head, “I don’t see why it should be.”

This, said in dragon _sotto voce_ , which naturally carried through the whole ship, made Laurence cover his face with his hands. Riley had lamented, in the privacy of Laurence’s company and discretion, over that very fact, and would likely take less offense than other men in his position to such a declaration, but that did not mean he preferred his business the focus of gossiping dragons.

“Do try to keep your voice down,” Laurence admonished, laying a warning hand on Temeraire’s foreleg. “In any case, it’s different for aviators, as our loyalties are more complicated than most. Our first duty lies too strongly with our dragons to divide them further. You may have noticed how few aviators do marry.”

Temeraire mulled this over for a few moments. “It seems to me,” he said at last, in that decisive tone that meant Laurence’s hand would soon be renewing its acquaintance with his forehead, “that the problem with humans is you have too many things you’re meant to be unconditionally loyal to. You can’t just pick one and stick with that above all else, but nevertheless, you must promise to do just that with each. It doesn’t seem fair to put all this pressure on people and then call them traitors afterward.”

At this seditious statement, Laurence knew he should make some reproof, but in their current situation the effort rang fatuous.

“But marriage is only between humans,” Temeraire said, tilting his head.

“Heavens, yes!” Laurence felt himself colour, unprepared for the sudden shift.

“So you and I are not married, then, even if my loyalties are to you, and you would never choose another dragon over me.” Temeraire peered down at him intently. “But Laurence, were aviators and dragons permitted to marry, would that not solve so many problems? Catherine would not have been forced to marry Captain Riley, and no one would have tried to take you away from me.”

Laurence wished for a storm, a French frigate, a sea serpent, the overt wrath of God, anything. “No, my dear, we are not. Though I understand your reasoning, you are forgetting one of the primary functions of marriage, which –“

“Oh, eggs.” Temeraire gestured dismissively. “Yes, that’s what Captain Riley was making such a fuss over. Except it’s all stuff, isn’t it, because he and Catherine weren’t married when he gave her the egg, and neither was Jane when she had Emily, and you –“

“Enough, enough,” Laurence cried, desperately. “We ought not to discuss other people’s decisions.”

Temeraire’s eyes gleamed in a way that suggested just what he thought of that, given how much the crew discussed Laurence’s decisions right in front of him, but he only put back his ruff. “It can’t just be eggs, or why would people be married once their children are grown, instead of finding someone else to make more eggs with? It doesn’t make much sense, from a biological standpoint, to keep producing offspring from the same pair of genes every time, you know. If dragons did so, England would only have Regal Coppers. Are humans not concerned with genetic variance?”

“It is about other things,” Laurence agreed, anything to keep the topic from straying further in that entirely unwholesome direction. “Love, and company, and obedience, and sharing a life together, understanding one another to the core. Fixing the other’s socks,” he added, acutely conscious of how ridiculous he sounded, but knew no other way to express the simple scene of quiet, blissful domesticity called up by the classic image of the happy couple beside the fire, he reading, she darning his socks. Laurence, unfortunately, found himself in the awkward position of being equipped with all the usual images of marriage without any of the practical experience.

Even as he said it, however, his words sounded hollow. What did that idyllic scene have to do with him?

“Oh, I see,” Temeraire brightened. “You mean like you and Granby.”

The world fell away under Laurence’s feet as he fell directly to hell – or so he imagined for the moment before he realized the ship had come down particularly hard on a large swell, and his legs had lost their circulation. “I beg your pardon?” Laurence choked.

“Well, you’re certainly loyal to each other, and he was obedient to you – at least, until he became a Captain, but even so – and he fixes your socks, and your shirts as well, and you fold his clothes for him. I’ve seen it.”

The portal to hell had not opened, but Laurence almost wished it had. “It is not the same,” he protested weakly. “Remember, I already told you—“

“Don’t try to tell me it’s because you can’t give him an egg,” Temeraire warned him. “I already pointed out that argument doesn’t make the least bit of sense.”

“Not that.” Laurence, feeling uncommonly hot and all over sweat, slid a finger inside his neckcloth and tugged it away from his skin. “It’s not only to do with eggs – children. There are – you said it yourself once, it’s – oh God.” Some of Granby’s more colourful merchant’s son language came to mind, but Laurence clung to propriety. “Remember – oh lord – remember Mei?”

Temeraire nodded in recognition, but soon his expression of confusion only deepened. “Yes, I see, but you cannot pretend _that_ only happens in marriage, because you and Jane –“ he cut himself off when Laurence humiliated himself by emitting a strangled groan, and switched tactics. “And at any rate, you will not tell me it’s anything to do with your inability to produce eggs together either way, because I came across some very interesting wood block prints in China that very clearly showed –“

“Temeraire, I must insist we end this conversation immediately.” Laurence disliked cutting Temeraire short, as curiosity un-assuaged he would no doubt pepper Laurence with more questions, but it was not to be encouraged, not on the dragondeck. Not, if Laurence could help it, on this side of heaven.

“But I don’t see why,” Temeraire said mulishly, curling in on himself. “I’m only trying to understand.”

“My dear, there are some topics of conversation which simply are not decent,” was all Laurence could scavenge, despite that being the flimsiest of admonishments against Temeraire’s heresy at the best of times. However, he could not bear to inform Temeraire of the punishments Laurence would face for even being suspected of what Temeraire casually suggested, even if he suspected that within the ranks of aviators the king’s laws were not quite so strictly followed. Either way, Laurence doubted Temeraire would see any wisdom or justice in sodomy laws, and Laurence’s insides withered at the thought of his dragon insisting on bringing the matter to Parliament.

“Well, I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand, with you refusing to explain to me.” Temeraire was working himself up into a fine sulk, most likely a byproduct of being forced aground for so long. Laurence made a mental note to beg permission to fly tomorrow.

“I apologize, my dear.” Laurence stroked Temeraire’s muzzle. “Perhaps another time.”

Temeraire ignored him. “So not Granby, and certainly not Jane, as she refused you,” he said, ignoring Laurence’s protests, then his head snapped up. “What about Tharkay, then? There’s less of the clothes-mending, but you do have a certain intensity, and he did follow you all the way to Terra Australis –“

“I’m afraid I have been put off the notion of marriage rather permanently,” came the dry drawl of the angel of death, here to strike Laurence down from sheer mortification. Heaven only knew how long he’d been standing there. “Even with Mr. Laurence’s myriad charms, I’m sure.”

Temeraire put back his ruff, clearly displeased with everyone. “Then perhaps _you_ can explain –“

Laurence clambered to his feet with none of the grace a former naval officer should possess. “I think I shall speak to Captain Riley about our current position,” Laurence said hastily, not turning to see the expression of scorn and amusement that habit told him would be gracing Tharkay’s smooth features. No doubt the years of self-imposed exile had given him a stronger constitution on these sorts of discussions, at least when a weaker Englishmen was present to discomfit.

Behind him, Tharkay was good enough not to laugh, and at that point, Laurence clung to any piece of fortune available to him.

“So I hear Temeraire gave you one hell of a thumping today,” Granby said, eyeing his ship’s biscuits and salt pork with somewhat less than full enthusiasm.

Laurence’s wine put forth its finest efforts to dispatch him, but he managed to sputter and survive. Granby had invited him to dine in his cabin, for small as it was, it did not stink of sweat and urine and the despair of hundreds of convicts. “Where did you hear that?” Laurence asked, insides sinking at the thought of ship gossip.

The sailors had never been fond of aviators and would leap at the opportunity to drag one through the mud. On another voyage the aviators might have been more circumspect with regards to one of their own; Laurence’s new position, however, put few in the mind to perform any offers, save perhaps a friendly shove over the side to expedite his meeting with the ocean floor.

“Oh, well.” Granby waved a hand. “Iskierka said something about Temeraire drilling you on what makes up a marriage, though God only knows what put that into his head. Jealous at the thought of sharing you with someone else now that you’re off active duty, no doubt.”

“Something of the kind, I should think.” Laurence shook his head and hoped his relief was less evident to Granby than it felt to him. “Did you ever think you might get married, John?”

He never would have asked such a delicate question even a year ago. Amusing, really, the effect turning tail on one’s country could have on one’s smaller scruples.

Granby, being Granby, merely shrugged. “I entered the service when I was seven, and it ain’t as though you see too many happy married examples around,” he said, his grammar, as usual, in opposition to his honesty. “I figured pretty quick it weren’t something I should set my hopes on.”

“Do you ever wish you had?” Laurence curled his hand around the mug of wine, glasses being too unstable for the pitch and roll of a ship, and tasted the tang of metal on his tongue.

Granby barked out a laugh. “That’d work swimmingly, wouldn’t it? Iskierka poking her nose into the bedroom every five minutes, demanding to know if we’d produced an egg yet, and how soon until it hatched? No. Not even another aviator would put up with us for too long. Besides, with all this gallivanting across the globe, it wouldn’t really feel like being married at all.”

Laurence nodded. “That is the order of things, in the Navy. Visit home while on furlough; receive the good news a year later, at a port halfway across the world, in a letter at least three months old, and return to a small child coached to be polite, but on whose affections you have no more claim than a perfect stranger.”

“While hastily doing the math to ensure the whelp is actually yours, no doubt,” Granby added with callous amusement. Laurence might have chided him had he not known officers pause for that exact reason. “You’ll excuse me for saying so, but that sounds like a hellish existence, by God.”

At one time, Laurence would have disagreed, and heartily so, citing the pleasures of a steady home, with wife and child, a spot of constancy in a life of continual change. Now, however, he merely lifted his shoulders. “There’s little time for arguing,” he did feel compelled to say, to defend even in the slightest the dream that had occupied his thoughts for the better part of two decades. “By the time a missive detailing a grievance reaches the other party, months will have passed, and perhaps a sixmonth for the reply to reach its destination, by which point time has rendered the first the opportunity to become sanguine about the entire affair. Better yet to say nothing at all.”

Granby snorted, sounding uncannily like Temeraire when faced with religious dogma. “Damned shameful way to run a marriage if you ask me,” he insisted, set in a stubborn line. “Not saying you should have a knock-out drag-down row each time the jam gets misplaced, but even that’s better than saying nothing, letting it all pile up, and damn near killing everyone with worry.”

Laurence felt the rebuke of his following Welsley’s orders, inappropriate though it was when couched in a discussion about proper marital relations. “I do apologize,” he said, quietly.

The angry flush faded, as Granby’s rages always did when challenged by simple courtesy rather than equal bluster. “God damn you, Laurence,” he muttered. “Just don’t fling yourself over the side, will you?”

“Having nearly drowned as a boy, I am under no misapprehension it is as peaceful a way out as people romanticize it to be,” Laurence said wryly. Though Granby could not know it – and Temeraire never would, for the Admiralty’s sake – the time for such thoughts had passed. “I shall do my best to repress the urge with common sense, should it arise.”

Granby rolled his eyes, and Laurence was struck by just how informal the man became in private quarters, though in public he was by no means a paragon of restraint. He looked at Laurence, the sunburn on his face deepening the frown wrinkles between his eyes until he looked rather like an African tribal mask.

“I say, Laurence, you’re not thinking about getting married, are you?” Granby burst out. “Dashed time for it, when you’re vaulting off to New South Wales and all. Plan to meet a fellow convict, and spend the rest of your life in happy mutual self-recrimination?”

Laurence permitted himself to fix Granby with an icy stare. “No, I am not, though if I were, I should thank you to refer to such an incident with at least a smidgen of politeness.”

The atmosphere of the room chilled for a few seconds, then Granby dropped Laurence’s gaze and ran a hand over his face. “Well, hell, I didn’t mean that. Your life is yours, whatever the Admiralty’s left you of it, and if you wanted to marry and thought she could handle Temeraire, then it’d be your right, wouldn’t it? I just don’t think how you’d have the need.”

The corner of Laurence’s mouth quirked in spite of himself. “Indeed, no. No, I have long given up any real desire for marriage, other than a brief nostalgia in times when such thoughts are welcome diversion. At this point, the only charm which marriage holds for me is the thought of someone who understands me completely, and who could, perhaps manage my life better than I am capable of at the moment.”

A dashed drippy bit of sentimentality, that, as Granby might say, but Laurence’s mood in the current climate, coupled with the wine Granby had brought to table, loosened his tongue somewhat. He no longer needed the hearth, the embroidered handkerchiefs, or a wife’s firm hand over the servants at formal dinners. He had, however, tired of the sad mess he had managed to make of his life; tired of decisions simultaneously the best and worst he could possibly make.

“Well.” Granby cleared his throat and didn’t quite meet Laurence’s gaze, staring instead at something on the wall behind him. “You hardly need a wife for that, now do you.”

Laurence thought of Granby, standing in his command tent in the Scottish wilds, bristling and red-faced with fury, attempting to talk Laurence out of being the kind of person he’d convinced himself he had become; of Tharkay, cutting through Laurence’s defenses with a few short phrases.

“No,” he said slowly, and glanced out at the glassy sea, the moon a shining coin set amid a splash of spilled ink. “No, perhaps not.”

The bell struck, and Laurence realized with a start it was well into the middle watch. “How many bells was that?” he asked of Granby, who merely leaned back in his chair with a slow smile.

“Three? Four? I must have stopped counting.” Granby grinned at him, the perfect picture of insolence in shirtsleeves. The lamplight delineated his arm muscles, well defined and powerful as any navy man’s after two decades of climbing over harnesses.

“Good heavens, four bells.” Laurence pushed aside his glass and made to stand, but the combined realization of the hour and the gleaming empty bottle in front of him did its best to disabuse him. “John, you’ve gotten me drunk.”

“Damned right I have,” Granby said, smug. He crossed the table with only the slightest hesitation in his steps, and that only betrayed by a careful deliberateness in his otherwise easy manner. He hooked an arm around Laurence’s waist and held him steady. “You’ve been looking too morose lately, and after that business with Temeraire I thought you might stay up all night thinking. I’d call this far pleasanter, hey?”

Laurence released a snort that would not have escaped him, had he not consumed so much of Granby’s wine. “Iskierka has been a bad influence on you,” he said. He splayed his fingers against the small of Granby’s back to balance himself, but shook his head when Granby made to lead him from the cabin. “No. I will not be managed like some young rating after his first commission celebration, I thank you. Only give me a moment.”

Granby’s chuckle ran deep in his throat. “Just how much do I have to give you to make you stop talking like a stiff, I wonder?”

“Far more than you are paid, even with all your piratical prize-taking,” Laurence said, with dignity. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on the movement of the deck, the way his legs bent infinitesimally to meet it, unconscious after all these years. Better. Granby shifted his position slightly, his fingers warm against Laurence’s hip.

“Unorthodox,” Laurence said, eyes still closed. “Your methods, I mean, and highly inappropriate. But thank you. I did manage to forget for a while.” Such was, he knew, the danger of alcohol, but Laurence did not feel so bad off that he required constant consolation from the bottle, not yet.

“Good.” Granby huffed a breath. “I could hardly send you back to Temeraire looking like you’d been kicked. He’d think he upset you, and then I’d have to deal with two long faces by breakfast tomorrow, and some things are more than any sane man can bear.”

“I laud your sacrifice, truly,” Laurence said, and only after he finished speaking did he realize his tone had been an imitation of Tharkay’s drawl. He straightened and dislodged himself from Granby’s supporting arm. “I believe I can make it to the dragondeck without embarrassment. Pray do not keep yourself up with worry.”

Granby snorted. “You already have plenty of nursemaids, and one the size of a frigate,” he retorted. “No, I’ll stay where my services are needed.”

“You’re always needed,” Laurence protested, but the expression of amused indulgence that crossed Granby’s face showed the aviator clearly thought him deep in his cups to make that statement. Laurence closed his mouth. “Good night, John.”

Granby’s smile quirked. “Good night, Laurence. Don’t topple off the deck or Temeraire will have my head.”

Laurence felt himself at sufficient sheets to the wind to permit a roll of the eyes.

“Laurence?” Temeraire nosed him when he returned to the dragondeck, having safely navigated the length of the ship without stumbling, knocking something awry, or pitching over the side. “Laurence, I’m sorry.”

Laurence climbed up into the space Temeraire had made for him, curled against the dragon’s side. “For what, my dear?” The general idea, of course, Laurence could work out for himself, but it always interested him to hear the specifics.

“Tharkay said …” Temeraire began, and Laurence stiffened. “Tharkay said I’d made you challenge your own notions more than should be possible for an Englishman, let alone a gentleman, and we’re on our way to Australia for it, so I should not have twitted you about marriage.”

Protectiveness over Temeraire, annoyance at interference in his own affairs, and relief at not having to explain this to Temeraire himself battled for dominance until Laurence merely felt exhausted. “It’s all right,” he said at last. “You challenged me for the better, and all the dragons in Europe shall thank you for it. However.” He laid a hand against Temeraire’s flank. “Perhaps you could restrict yourself, until we reach the colonies, to only those matters of great social injustice. I’m afraid I am not the most helpful subject to interrogate in matters of marriage, anyhow.”

“Tharkay said that, too.”

“Did he just.” By this point Laurence’s desire for sleep, coupled with the wine sitting comfortably – for now – in his stomach, meant he could only muster up amusement. “Mr. Tharkay is a knowledgeable man, it seems.”

The clouds in front of the moon shifted for a moment, and in the brief arc of light Laurence saw Tharkay on the deck, propped against the mast and sharpening a knife. No way to tell if the man had heard, but perhaps feeling Laurence’s gaze on him, Tharkay glanced up. He held Laurence’s eye, expression unreadable in the dark, and the back of Laurence’s neck prickled from the intensity of it. Always an enigma, Tharkay, but then Laurence caught the flash of teeth as he grinned. Tharkay tossed off a wry salute before going back to work on his knife with a flourish understated for anyone else, but almost ostentatious for him.

What kind of man, Laurence thought, stayed awake until five bells, sharpening his knives on deck. He ignored Granby’s earlier remarks about nursemaids, instead reassuring Temeraire once more and lying down to sleep.

Come morning, it took the full effect of Laurence’s good breeding and social acumen not to curse Granby’s name from lower hull to forecastle. The navy life may have accustomed Laurence to short commons, but not to the effect a captain’s banquet of wine on a regulation meal stomach would have on his head.

“Laurence, Laurence, are you all right? You look so ill. Shall I fetch the surgeon?” Temeraire’s words resonated through Laurence’s body as though his skull were a gong and the dragon’s voice the mallet.

“My dear,” Laurence began, but even his own words caused him to wince and pause. “There is no need,” he said finally. Ridiculous, how incapacitating this felt when he had been in battle and seen half his scalp sliced off by a French sabre. Granby, with a personal butcher’s bill to rival that of a sloop’s crew, would no doubt laugh himself to death – which, at the moment, felt like poor consolation.

“You needn’t worry, Temeraire.” Tharkay exercised his impeccable talent for showing up just when Laurence wished to sink into the deck and disappear, appearing next to Laurence. “Your captain is merely the victim of careless overindulgence.”

Laurence cracked one eye, intending to bestow upon Tharkay a blistering glare that would reduce the other man’s good-humoured superiority to tatters, but the sun lancing through his skull put pain to that. “Temeraire, this man is an assassin who has taken the shape of our beloved companion. Please dispatch him with haste.”

A rasp of scales as Temeraire shifted, most likely to give Tharkay a closer look. “If that were true, you would be forced to tell me the secret of how you did it – before I ate you, of course.”

“Of course.” Tharkay’s tone set Laurence’s teeth on edge. “Up, Laurence, you don’t want the crew to see you malingering. The last thing you need at the moment is rumours you’ve turned to the grape.”

Very true. Laurence gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit without giving lie to the cacophony currently in his head. “Especially since I have henceforth decided to forego wine entirely. I would not wish to give such an incorrect impression.”

“Indeed.” Tharkay stood before him, holding a glass of something murky and suspicious. “Drink this.”

Temeraire leaned his head close and took a cautious sniff, then recoiled so quickly the entire deck shifted. “That smells terrible!”

Tharkay smiled, a nasty, wolfish expression that Laurence did not much savour. “It’s meant to, but if Mr. Laurence could avail himself of it, I do believe he will find his current situation much improved.”

Lies, Laurence thought, lies and poison, but he had sufficiently wakened that he did not allow the words to pass his lips. He took the glass from Tharkay, fingers slipping on the condensation. Tharkay kept his hand in place for a moment until Laurence’s grip was sure, a condescension for which Laurence felt dual thanks and irritation.

The taste of Tharkay’s wonder medicine, no doubt procured during one of his travels to the wild unknowns across the globe, was best forgotten. Laurence considered it a victory that he did not shriek in an unmanly fashion. The concoction slithered down Laurence’s throat like some sort of living reptile.

“While you process that, here.” Something cold and metal pressed itself into Laurence’s hand. “Stand up, move about. It will move what I gave you through your system, and the crew will never suspect you’re ailing.”

Laurence curled his hand around the grip of a training sabre, one of those with dull edges meant for practice on deck. Incapable of killing a man unless he was extremely unlucky, but perfectly capable of humiliating the same while leaving week-long physical evidence behind.

“Much as I am loathe to admit it, I’m not certain it behoves either of us to put steel in my hand at the moment.” Laurence stood and tested the weight of the sword. Heavy, clumsy, with balance just a fraction off-centre from so many practice beatings. Not something he would be comfortable taking into battle with him.

Tharkay did not reply, but merely shrugged off his coat, getting his foot under the pile of fabric and tossing it aside. While the well-worn garment had certainly seen the better of several continents, Laurence was still shocked by the casual disregard for its wellbeing. With not a neckcloth to his modesty, Tharkay pushed up his sleeves, baring his forearms to all and sundry who cared to gawp at them.

“If you’re attempting to shock me with your nudity,” Laurence warned, twitching his own jacket straight over his hip, “your efforts are in vain.”

“Pity.” Tharkay rolled his shoulders and favoured Laurence with a small smile.

Laurence stepped into a ready stance, shifting so he backed the rising sun. Tharkay acknowledged the rather unsportsmanlike move with a raised eyebrow, but did not attempt to correct the disadvantage. “Rules of engagement, Mr. Tharkay?” he asked.

Tharkay tilted his head. “I don’t intend to fence, if that’s your intention. Footwork and careful ripostes never saved a man in the desert, and I doubt very much it would avail you on the decks of a French frigate, slipping in blood.”

No indeed. Laurence had, of course, been given rudimentary training in fencing for the purposes of duelling, back when he’d served in the Navy, but those skills did not translate to ship-to-ship battles, and even less on the back of a dragon. Efficiency counted, and ruthlessness, too. He’d never bothered teaching Roland or Dyer the niceties of formal fencing.

“How shall we decide the bout, then?” Laurence asked. First blood seemed unnecessarily savage for a training match, not to mention dangerous with Laurence not in full possession of his faculties at the moment. Drawing blood with such a blunt blade required a precision he did not trust himself to wield. “Disarmament would be the most convenient, I should think.”

Tharkay shifted his grip on his sabre, moving the blade so that sunlight glinted off the dull metal and into Laurence’s eyes. Laurence squinted and found himself unable to categorize the other’s expression. “When one yields,” Tharkay replied at last.

Either Tharkay’s stare, the liquor in his system, or the sun in his eyes caused Laurence a moment’s hesitation, but he soon overcame it. “It’s decided, then,” he said. Temeraire lifted his head, evidently interested in the outcome, but Laurence forced himself to ignore all else. “Shall we?”

Laurence had not practiced swordplay with Tharkay before, restricting his practices to instructing the younger cadets or sparring with Granby. He did, however, possess the most understanding that could be possible of a man who made himself the perfect personification of an enigma, so he felt he had some edge in the proceedings. Tharkay was not, for instance, the kind of fighter who would make the first move, pretending instead to taunt Laurence into doing it for him. Laurence would not rise to the bait. He steadied himself for a battle of attrition as well as skill –

\-- and found himself, his weapon and person on the deck, wrist aching and tailbone crying out in protest. Tharkay stood over him, expression as inscrutable as ever, having twisted the sabre from Laurence’s grip before Laurence even registered his movement.

Laurence then recalled a man who preferred to confirm other’s suspicions of him before they had time to form on their own, who had done his best to alienate himself from Laurence in advance, who preferred open hostility to whispers. Laurence realized himself a fool.

Tharkay’s lip twisted, and he reached down a hand to help Laurence to his feet. Laurence closed his fingers around Tharkay’s forearm, feeling the corded muscles flex just beneath the skin, and with a small heave, got himself back on his feet. Laurence retrieved his sabre, none the worse for wear after its unceremonial separation from his hand, and hefted it.

So Tharkay preferred to attack, then, making him an efficient and deadly opponent, and far less likely to play the sort of games in battle that he did with words. Laurence could build a strategy around that, certainly.

Or perhaps not. Tharkay dodged Laurence’s attack, meant to strike him on the shoulder and dislodge his blade from his hand, and stopped with the flat of his sword an inch from Laurence’s neck. Tharkay paused in place for a moment, giving Laurence ample opportunity to digest their positions, then stepped back and allowed Laurence to swallow his self-directed irritation and catch his breath.

“Laurence, you’re not –“ Temeraire began, no doubt bursting with advice he’d gleaned from any number of books he’d read, but Laurence cut him off with a sharp hand gesture. Temeraire subsided, but watched them with his ruff pricked, interest evident in his eyes.

Again, Laurence analyzed their positions, his increasing library of Tharkay’s attack methods. Again, Tharkay evaded him, holding himself an inch from what would have been, in true battle, another killing blow. Laurence felt frustration welling up inside him, filling him as a squall billowed a ship’s sails.

“You realize your problem,” Tharkay said, quite calmly, after disarming Laurence yet again. “You over-think everything, spend so much time in useless analysis that by the time you form your plan, the time to use it is past. And more to the point –“ his blade caught Laurence on the arm, but Laurence weathered the blow and countered with one of his own – “You never think about the things actually worth your consideration.”

Bruised, hung over, and humiliated, Laurence had no time for lectures, the point of which, he suspected, had little to do with shipboard training exercises. “Is that so,” he said, voice clipped, and managed to block one of Tharkay’s strikes, saving himself a nasty bruise across his ribs.

The blades sang as the two sabres locked, the shear of metal making itself felt in Laurence’s very bones. They faced each other, scant inches apart, and Laurence found himself startled by the savage intensity of Tharkay’s face, though his expression had not changed in any quantifiable way. Perhaps it was his pupils, dilated from the exercise, or the unwavering quality of his stare. Either way, Laurence backed off, shaken.

They fought longer, and as they did so, Laurence began to shift tactics unconsciously, relying less on attempts to read his opponent and more to reacting without thought, the way he would in a melee when any moment lost to contemplation might mean the loss of something more tangible.

Tharkay, Laurence discovered to absolutely no surprise, fought what a gentleman might refer to as less-than-cleanly, doing his best to throw Laurence off-balance, either with carefully timed blows or with sweeps of his leg toward Laurence’s foot. He did not commit the swordplay equivalent of hitting a ship with a broadside after she had struck her colours, nothing so reprehensible as landing a finishing stroke on a disarmed man, but Laurence did not think Tharkay would scruple to stab an opponent in the back if the situation warranted. While Laurence managed to claw back a modicum of balance to their current match, he did not rank his chances very highly if they engaged in a down-and-out brawl. Certainly not if Tharkay used any of the smaller weapons Laurence knew he secreted on his person.

And so they fought, as the sun crept higher in the sky, rays dazzling off the ocean waves. Laurence’s muscles protested, and even Tharkay showed signs of fatigue. His strokes felt heavy when they connected with Laurence’s, no longer aimed with such deadly precision, but neither would yield. Despite the ache throughout his body, Laurence relished the contest, but refused let it show and give rise to Tharkay’s smugness.

At last, Granby stepped between them, and Laurence had to choke back a shout of protest. “Enough,” Granby said firmly, looking between the men. “I don’t know what you’re out to prove, but I’m well shot of it.”

Laurence fought to catch his breath, only realizing once he lowered his sabre that his arms shook, the muscles in his hands seizing. Granby followed Laurence’s gaze and shook his head before turning to Tharkay. “You shouldn’t wind him up like that,” he admonished, further putting to rest any protestations he may have made the night before over his concerns for Laurence’s welfare. “You know how he gets.”

“Indeed.” Tharkay put down his weapon and rubbed at his shoulder, massaging the joint. His thin shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to him as he moved, and his face betrayed the smallest hint of amusement. “I do apologize for any inappropriateness,” he said, his tone the perfect model of deference, and Granby snorted. “Laurence, how is your head?”

Laurence blinked, having forgotten the reason for their practice match in the first place. He felt as though he had never fell to temptation the night before; indeed, he thought he could scale the mast as quickly as a boy. “I think you know perfectly well,” he replied. His hair had come loose from its queue, the sweaty strands sticking to his forehead and resisting his efforts to push them back out of his eyes. Tharkay’s gaze still followed his movements, intent, as though he’d forgotten they were no longer fighting, with no need to track Laurence’s every motion.

“Shame,” said one of the crewman, in that ostentatious tone meant to be private to no one but in pretence. “Should’ve just let them have at. One less traitor and filthy Chinaman to eat our food if they’d killed each other. There’s plenty more of the first, and millions enough of the other.”

Tharkay’s expression shuttered itself off with military precision; Granby rounded on the offending speaker, but to everyone’s surprise – none the least of whom was Laurence – the one whose fist ended up tangled in the sailor’s shirtfront was Laurence himself. He had no recollection of moving until the other man’s back struck the bulwark, Laurence’s full weight on his chest. Laurence still held the sabre, not to the man’s throat, but at the ready at his side.

“You will take back your words, sir,” Laurence ground out, startled by his ability to speak so calmly with his mind a roar of fury.

“Shan’t,” the man shot back. “You are a traitor, and your fussing ain’t going to change that.”

“Laurence!” Granby shouted at Laurence’s back. He was ignored.

“I don’t give a whit what you say about me, in the decency of your private quarters or elsewhere.” Laurence shifted, his arm pressed against the other’s throat, not enough to bruise or wind, but enough to warn. “I refer to your impolitic remarks about another’s upbringing, with complete disregard to character or honour. You will withdraw.”

In response, the man spat in Laurence’s face. Several pairs of feet shuffled behind Laurence, no doubt the man’s friends rallying to take Laurence down when he retaliated. Waiting until he struck, Laurence thought, so they might have him flogged for striking an officer, a fault he was now culpable for committing.

“Laurence, in God’s name, stand down!” Granby’s voice sounded shocked and furious, his anger no doubt focussed on Laurence for the sake of expediency as he couldn’t very well thrash the sailors. “You can’t – you’re an aviator, for Christ’s sake!”

“Not anymore,” Laurence reminded him grimly. The rule against duelling no longer applied to him, outcast as he was, and at any rate, he did not intend to lose to the likes of this man.

“Laurence.” Tharkay’s voice, in his ear, deceptively controlled, like velvet over a steel blade. “Stand down. I do not need you to defend my honour.”

“Well, someone has to!” The words exploded from Laurence’s throat before he fully realized what he was saying, and he spun to face Tharkay. The crewman slipped his grasp and ran back to his friends, affecting an expression of nonchalance, as though he had just bested Laurence.

Tharkay’s nostrils flared, just once, and his dark eyes narrowed. “Just because a man chooses not to lower himself to the level of a bilge rat does not mean he does not remain above, however long it may squeak.”

Laurence brought himself under control with more force than he thought he possessed. “But there is no reason why that rat should think himself a man, if no one takes the time to disabuse him of the notion.”

Tharkay fixed Laurence with a long stare. Marks from the rare times Laurence did manage to land a blow on him had begun to show, forming dark welts on his tanned skin. “We should get below decks and let your Captain Riley sort this out,” Tharkay said finally, his demeanour shifting, smoothing over as a maid might straighten rumpled bedclothes.

Laurence hissed under his breath, but saw the wisdom in his friend’s suggestion. Riley alone had the authority to handle his men; Laurence would have overstepped his bounds even if he had remained an officer, in correcting another man’s subordinates.

Once he reached Tharkay’s quarters, Laurence collapsed onto the cot, head in his hands. The full enormity of what he’d done settled upon him, and he bit back a groan. Had he attempted to fight the man, any question of pardon or freedom in the colonies would have instantly evaporated; not to mention the chances of Temeraire sitting quietly while watching his captain put in irons.

“For a man so lauded for his intelligence, I am continually astounded at the extent of your stupidity.” The mattress dipped as Tharkay lowered himself down next to Laurence. “What do you think would have happened, if you’d challenged him?”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you.” Laurence let out a shaking breath. The man’s friends would not have been sanguine about allowing a challenge to pass, let alone for Laurence to be victorious. He would have found himself floating on the breakers with a knife in his back before the week was through, and as to what Temeraire would do after that, well.

“Also, if you think that the worst insult I’ve ever heard directed at my person, I must conclude your upbringing far more sheltered than I would have allowed.” Tharkay’s tones remained measured. He held out a handkerchief, but Laurence could not bring himself to move. With an annoyed sigh, Tharkay reached over and roughly wiped away the last of the spittle still clinging to Laurence’s cheek.

“That is not the point,” Laurence said dully, though he could not elucidate what, exactly, was. “You shouldn’t let them speak so. I don’t see how you bear it.”

“I’ve heard my mother called an oriental whore by men who knew far better.” Tharkay shrugged; Laurence felt the motion against his arm. “I watched a British officer spit in a dish she’d prepared for dinner. I watched my father sit in silence while men asked him how much he paid her, and why he kept her whelp around when the chances of my being his were infinitesimal.” His voice lost the careful neutrality that Tharkay drilled into his speech; for the first time, something raw scraped in his throat. “That man is nothing.”

“Good Lord,” Laurence said, conscious of the sheer weight of the inadequacy of his words. “Tharkay, I’m –“ he faltered, knowing his apology could do nothing to temper the years of daily scorn of which Tharkay professed to be so unaffected.

“It’s sweet, really.” This time Tharkay’s voice twisted; a dagger concealed in fine silk robes, deadly poison inside a rich dessert. “What you thought I needed protecting from. I promise you, Laurence, when I say that my honour does not need defending from the likes of those.”

Laurence wished he were Granby, who by his inappropriate outbursts and inarticulate displays of temper could express his outrage at the world, at injustice, far better than Laurence ever could. “I wish it weren’t so,” he said, and felt a fool for it.

“Indeed.” Tharkay’s fingers worked their way into Laurence’s hair. Laurence jumped at the initial contact, then winced when Tharkay probed the knot that had begun forming when he fell and struck his head against the deck. “Checking for injuries, not trying to murder you,” Tharkay said mildly. “It would be unfortunate if I killed you and that fellow took the credit.”

Laurence worked up the energy for a hollow laugh. Exhaustion pressed upon him, far worse than the effects of last night’s alcohol had ever been, and for a brief moment he entertained the notion of leaning some of his weight against Tharkay’s side. But no. The other man had weathered enough on his own, that much was clear.

Tharkay’s hand continued to twine its way through Laurence’s hair, not with the relaxed ease of a lover’s, like Jane when Laurence lay curled at her side, spent and euphoric, but with practiced movements as he searched for further bruises. Laurence let his eyes fall closed.

He knew he should protest the treatment – Laurence was not a child, after all, and a few scrapes and bruises from a sparring match would hardly be the end of him – but if it kept Tharkay from dwelling on the past, Laurence could be silent. Tharkay’s touch skimmed downward, brushing over the nape of Laurence’s neck and tracing a bruise from a blow he had not quite managed to dodge. Laurence shuddered.

“At any rate,” Tharkay said, and though his voice was quiet, it caused Laurence to start. “No insult men of his ilk could devise would ever measure up to the ingenuity of children.” His hand rested on the back of Laurence’s neck, and he dug his thumb into a knot of muscle there.

Of course. Tharkay had been a child, a fact that Laurence had never quite managed to internalize – he could not reconcile the strong, embittered yet unbowed man before him with a child’s innocence. Perhaps that had been his mistake, presuming Tharkay’s childhood had been any different than now.

Tharkay’s tone took on a mocking sing-song quality as his fingers skirted the neckline of Laurence’s jacket. “’Tenzing, Tenzing, can’t see a damn thing’ – because of my eyes, you see,” he interrupted himself to explain. Laurence thought of his own boyhood playmates, at the giggles when they pulled back their eyelids and spoke in silly accents, but twisted with intent and malice he and his friends had not thought to possess. “‘Mother was a whore and his father couldn’t keep it in!’ I don’t believe they knew what it was my father was supposed to have kept, nor where, but they’d heard it somewhere, I suppose.”

Laurence’s hands tightened on his knees. “Someone should have horsewhipped them,” he said, startled by his own savagery, and at the statement, which closer suited Granby’s style of candour than his own.

Tharkay chuckled, a sound devoid of all amusement. “My father did, on rare occasions, but it never deterred them long. Their parents encouraged them, I expect. Here, get this off.” He tugged at the sleeve of Laurence’s jacket, and Laurence did not protest as the garment was removed, though he hissed at the movement. “I do appear to have given you quite the drubbing,” Tharkay said, and for once the feigned jocundity in his tone sounded exactly that. “I should probably apologize for that.” He ran a hand over Laurence’s ribs. “Nothing broken, at least.”

“I should think not,” Laurence remonstrated. “I’m not the wilting blossom you seem to presume I am, if you think I’m to be severely injured from a practice bout.”

“With enough strength in you nearly to kill a man and get yourself court-martialled twice over? No, I should think not.” With no more injuries to check, Tharkay’s hands seemed not to know what to do with themselves, and settled, with uncharacteristic unsurety, between Laurence’s shoulder blades.

Something struck Laurence then, and he straightened. “I never knew your name,” he burst out, blinking. “Two and a half years, and I never learned your name. My God.” Shame struck him with the full force of any blow he’d ever received.

This time Tharkay’s laughter sounded slightly more natural. “You’re so stiff-necked about that sort of thing, I suppose it never occurred to you to ask.”

“You never offered it, either,” Laurence felt compelled to point out, though his time in China had made him aware of some of the customs of nomenclature in Oriental cultures. If the use of first names had restrictions in England, it was triply so for those in the East. “What does it mean?”

Tharkay hesitated, a rarity in itself. “It means, as best I can translate it, something akin to ‘wisdom’, or ‘protector of the natural law’. So you see, even from birth I was destined to follow my own moral path.” He sounded as though he thought the entire lot stuff and nonsense, but affection for something – his mother, perhaps, as Laurence did not have evidence to suppose Tharkay held any particular ties to his cultural background – kept him from saying so.

Laurence smiled despite everything. “Does it really? My name is supposed to mean ‘protector’ as well. So, following your logic, you can’t fault me for attempting to defend you on deck.”

“As senseless and unnecessary an act though it was,” Tharkay added, helpfully, but his hand slid back up to rest just above Laurence’s collar.

Perhaps his blood was still up from the fight, or the confrontation afterward, but Laurence was acutely aware of every point of contact between them. Tharkay’s fingers tracing small patterns against his skin; the press of his own elbow against Tharkay’s side; the stretch between knee and hip where their legs touched. His pulse sang in his ears.

“Tenzing,” Laurence said, experimentally, testing the sound of it. Tharkay’s fingers froze. Laurence turned to meet his gaze, but may as well have kept staring at his feet, for all the clues Tharkay’s expression gave him. “If I may, that is.”

Tharkay held Laurence’s eye for several long seconds, then one corner of his mouth twitched. “If you must.”

“I do, I think,” Laurence insisted, though at this juncture he’d rather lost track of what exactly he was insisting upon.

The cabin door slammed open. “Good God, Laurence, I have half a mind to pitch you overboard myself and save us all the trouble,” Granby fumed, his face a thundercloud. Tharkay sat back, withdrawing his hand; Laurence felt the absence, a cold draft upon his skin. “I don’t care if you aren’t an aviator on paper. Do you have any idea what a damned fool you’ve been?”

“I have been made aware of the fact, John, and I do not require further elaboration,” Laurence snapped. Tharkay stood and crossed the room, choosing a vantage point where he could watch them both without turning his head.

Granby dug the fingers of both hands into his hair, tugging at the dark strands. “Just, all right, that Bilson was a right scrub, and I would have enjoyed bashing him across the mouth, make no mistake, in answer to what he said,” Granby said fiercely, and tossed Tharkay a dark look of outraged camaraderie that assuaged Laurence’s anger somewhat. “But the men are looking for any excuse to have you over, and if you don’t want Temeraire to blow the ship apart after they try to lock you in the brig with the others, you need to keep a hold of yourself. Now that they know what gets your goat, you can be sure they’ll keep making black remarks about our friend here.”

Laurence let out a long breath, and counselled himself to remain calm. “I had not thought of that.”

“Of course you hadn’t, because you’re a goddamned gentleman who wouldn’t ever consider such things.” Granby scoffed, making ‘gentleman’ sound rather like someone’s infirm grandmother. “But they’re not, you know, and even men of good breeding don’t have too many reservations about insulting –“ he cut himself off and gestured at Tharkay, who made his leg with an acid-laced smile.

“I am acutely aware, yes.” Laurence sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, then. I shall make my apologies to Captain Riley.”

Granby snorted. “I didn’t say you had to go crawling on your belly, now did I? Riley knows damned well you didn’t start it, and if he can’t have his man flogged for it he can at least stop his grog. You’d do best to stay out of it and say no more.”

Laurence spread his hands, at a loss for what to do with himself. Seeing his confusion, Granby’s expression softened. “I did get permission for you to go aloft with Iskierka and me today,” he said. “I thought it might be best to keep everyone separate for a while.”

“That does seem like the best course of action.” Laurence fished a spare loop of thread from his pocket and tied his hair back. “Tharkay, will you join me? Temeraire would enjoy the company, I’m sure.”

Granby rounded on Tharkay with a mother’s fierceness. “Yes, for God’s sake, please do. The last I need to hear after coming back down is that you’ve somehow enacted your own sneaky revenge against the fellow for impugning Laurence’s honour. I hope you both are sorry when you’ve worried me to an early grave.”

“I will plant flowers, and water them daily with my tears,” Tharkay said with perfect earnestness, and shot Laurence a look of dry amusement.

Granby snorted, a sound for which Laurence blamed Iskierka, but his grin marred any real attempt at severity. Tharkay acknowledged this with his customary quirk of the lips, then turned to both of them and bowed. “I think I shall tend to Temeraire, who is no doubt planning wholesale murder of the entire ship if someone does not reassure him.”

Laurence watched him go, and the indefinable feeling he’d sensed in the air during their conversation now settled in the pit of his stomach. He roused himself from his reverie when he realized Granby was watching him, with an uncharacteristically impenetrable expression.

“I am sorry for my behaviour,” Laurence said again, twisting his fingers together, but to his surprise he found he could not plumb up complete sincerity in the statement.

Granby raised an eyebrow in a manner that suggested he saw into the depths of Laurence’s earnestness, and found it wanting. “Well, I suppose if you hadn’t then I would have, and if not me then Temeraire, so all in all it was probably the best course of action.” He wrinkled his nose, looking as though he wanted to spit. “I’ll be glad when we’ve landed, and no mistake. Putting up with those bastards is a test of any man’s patience, let alone someone who’s had to go through as much as the two of you.”

Laurence was not inclined to disagree. As much as he knew he should have approached the situation in a more rational manner, the memory of Tharkay’s face assuming that careful blankness still filled Laurence with irrational fury. He could not have stopped himself for all the threats of court-martial in the world.

“He’s good for you,” Granby said suddenly. “Tharkay, I mean. Your acquaintance. It’s done you good. You’re not as stiff-necked as you were, and I dare say he’s stopped being quite so prickly and ready to take offence at the slightest thing.”

He had not considered that, despite having given plenty of introspection to his own situation vis a vis his nationality and loyalty, but Laurence accepted Granby’s statement. “As are you,” he pointed out, as Granby was still watching him, eyes flicking as though searching for a particular response.

Granby’s face broke out into a wide smile, and he clapped Laurence on the back. “I do believe you’re still drunk,” he said. “Surely that’s more sentiment than you’ve expressed since I first met you. Come on, let’s get you on deck before Temeraire lifts off the roof to look at us.”

“Or Iskierka burns it down,” Laurence added, amused. He was rather confused to discover that that the indescribable _something_ that he’d felt during his conversation with Tharkay had not dissipated with the man’s departure. Then again, perhaps Granby was correct in his assumption of Laurence’s faculties, fighting and Tharkay’s mysterious snake oil regardless.

Granby kept a companionable hand on Laurence’s shoulder until they reached the top of the stairs, and Laurence felt the warm pressure right through to his skin. In front of them, Tharkay sat with Temeraire, reading aloud from one of the many books; he glanced up and allowed a brief smile to pass his face before Temeraire thrust his nose forward to make sure Laurence had not been secretly injured during his absence. Iskierka, not to be outdone, immediately nudged Granby away from Laurence’s side and made her own examination.

Laurence laughed, and this time his chest did not ache with the force of words unsaid. He laid a hand on Temeraire’s neck, the scales pleasantly hot from the mid-morning sun, and allowed himself to breathe. For the first time since leaving England, he tasted possibility on the salt-spray air.


End file.
